


The Cab

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Beginnings [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Intimacy, M/M, Referenced Exchange of Drugs for Sex, burgeoning relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have questions—about tonight, about Knightley.”</p><p>John shakes his head.  “No.  I only need to know what you want me to know.”  </p><p>Sherlock stares.  John is looking out the window at the city racing by.  The snow is still falling.  It’s beautiful.  Strange he should notice that.  Strange he should notice anything but John, when their fingers are touching like this, so many small points of contact.</p><p>“You remember what happened the last time you said you didn’t need to know anything about the past of someone who mattered to you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cab

**Author's Note:**

> It's suggested that you read Part 1 of this series, "The Bridge", before reading this.

The heightened emotion is not real.  The irritation—also not real.  After effects of the drug as it slowly seeps from his brain.

Focus.  Seams in the pavement (1, 2, 3, 4, click.  1, 2, 3, 4, click.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, click.  Steady hum of smooth asphalt).  They’ve left the bridge.  Crossed the intersection where Grosvenor turns to Millbank.  They’ll drive five more minutes in current traffic, then pass the palace.  After that it will be another 10 minutes to Marylebone Rd., and…

Sherlock’s eyes snap to his hand as they go over a bump, and John’s hand bounces against the seat, and comes to land against his, finger’s meshing.  He leaves them there.  Wipes of orange streetlight wash over their twined fingers in six second intervals.  

“You have questions—about tonight, about Knightley.”

John shakes his head.  “No.  I only need to know what you want me to know.”  

Sherlock stares.  John is looking out the window at the city racing by.  The snow is still falling.  It’s beautiful.  Strange he should notice that.  Strange he should notice anything but John, when their fingers are touching like this, so many small points of contact.

“You remember what happened the last time you said you didn’t need to know anything about the past of someone who mattered to you?”

John’s hand tenses atop his, but he says nothing. 

“I want you to ask, John.  I want you to know everything.  I’ll tell you everything, anything.  There are no questions off limits.  It’s important that you know that.”

John tears his attention away from the snowy city beyond the window, and turns to look down at their clasped hands.  “Have you ever been in a relationship—a romantic relationship?”

John’s thumb is tracing a vein on the back of Sherlock’s hand.  His face is soft, relaxed, belying the turmoil which is undoubtedly racing just below the surface.  Words are not easy for John.  This—talking about things that matter— is nearly impossible for him.  Words are to John what touch is to Sherlock.  A strange, foreign land, one that needs to be traversed, but for which you have no maps, and yet here they are, in the back of a cab, holding one another’s hands, and talking.  

“No.”

John nods, but still doesn’t look up.  “But, you’ve had sex.”

“Obviously.  As I said, I…”

“Other than Knightley, other than…”  John glances up at their driver, and lowers his voice before continuing, “Other than services exchanged for drugs.  You’ve given and received pleasure?”

Sherlock is silent.  What does one say?  How does one go about this?  It’s delicate.  John’s body language screams apprehension, anxiety, he’s treading unfamiliar ground.  He’s wholly out of his depth, in more ways than one.

“I’m just asking if there have been others, other than Knightley?”

“Yes.”

John nods.  It’s stiff.  He’s trying to accept this information.  He’s failing.  “Yes?”

“Yes.  There have been others.” Sherlock repeats, a unexpected and inexplicable flood of anxiety racing through his veins.

“But you’ve never been in a relationship?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Sherlock hesitates.  Thinks.  There had been something between he and Victor.  An attraction, perhaps?  A fondness?  Love?  “No.”

“So you’ve never had a relationship.  You’ve never been in love.  But, you’ve had sex with people other than Knightley?”

“Yes.”

John shakes his head, lifts his fingers from Sherlock’s and turns to stare back out the window. 

“You’re disappointed in me.”  It’s not a question.

John says nothing for a long time.  They pull up to the kerb in front of the flat.  Sherlock pays for once, because it seems the right thing to do given the circumstances.  The cab pulls away, and Sherlock turns to find John standing by the front door, staring at him.  “What was it then?  One night stands?”

Sherlock shakes he head.

“Then what?!”

“I’ve told you.  I was cut off.  I needed—I needed it, John.”

“What?  The sex?”

“No.  The cocaine.”

John’s brow furrows.  It’s confusion.  Somewhere their wires have gotten crossed.  “You mean the others, other than Knightley, that was for drugs, too?”

Ahh…  There they are…  

Sherlock nods.

“How many?”

“Two others.”

“Three total?”

“Yes.”

“Blow jobs every time?”

“Every time but once.”

“And what was that then?”

“A fuck.”

John sucks in a breath through his nose, balls his hand tight.  His lips curve into that tight, lethal smile he only gets when he’s contemplating murder.  Shaking his head, he huffs out a bitter laugh and stares down at the pavement.  “Were you safe?”

“No.”

John’s head snaps up.  “Jesus.  Sherlock, you need to…”

“I’ve been tested.  I’m clean.  I was very, very lucky, I suppose.”

John let’s out a small exhalation that almost looks like relief.  “Bloody right you were.  And when was this?  The last time?”

“I was 23.  I didn’t like it. That was an end to it.”

John stares back down at the snowy step, swipes a swath of snow away with the toe of his shoe.  “Come here.”

_Unexpected._

When Sherlock doesn’t move, John looks up, jerks his chin toward the sidewalk one step below him.  “Come here.”

He goes.  With John one step up from him, they are almost face-to-face.  In fact John has almost a half inch on him.  But, he’s only staring now that Sherlock’s done as he ordered.  And then, after a moment, he reaches out, brushes the snow from out of his curls, off his shoulders, smooths the collar of his own jacket, still wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s shoulders.

John looks.  He looks and looks.  Sherlock looks back.

“So, you’ve never—had sex—for fun, or pleasure, or just because you maybe liked someone?  They smelled nice, or they made you laugh, or they looked fantastic in a pair of jeans?”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “Is that what people do?”

John lets out a short laugh.  “Some of them.  Yeah.”

“Is that what you do?”

John is clearly caught up short by the question.  This conversation was supposed to be about Sherlock.  That was easier.  This is something different.

John’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips.  He stares up at the snow falling silently out of the early morning sky, for a moment, perhaps hoping heaven will provide an answer he doesn’t have.  He sighs.  “I don’t know what I do.”  It’s the truth.  John doesn’t know.  He’s never really known.  He hides from himself, and very successfully, too.  But something has shifted tonight.  “I do.  Yeah, I do I guess.  But it doesn’t mean anything either.”

“Doesn’t it…”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s—it’s just sex, I guess.  Fun—sometimes.  Usually pleasurable.  Sometimes a bit of a chore, to be honest.  But it’s what people do.”  John reaches up, trails a thumb along his cheek.  The pad of his finger is ice cold against the flushed warmth of Sherlock’s skin.  John licks his lips again.

“What would make it mean something?”

John swallows, a puff of breath escapes his lips, condensing in the cold air before disappearing into the darkness.  “I don’t know.  Connection—maybe.  Something real.  The right person, or…”

“You don’t know,” Sherlock suddenly realises aloud.  “You’ve never had it, so you don’t know.”

John looks surprised for a moment, but then he accepts the truth of it.  Sherlock can see the moment he does.  His eyes soften, the corner of his mouth twitches up in an attempt at something casual and wry, but it only ends up looking sad.

“Perhaps it’s just an illusion, anyway.  Perhaps it’s something people cling to, to make the horror of life more bearable,” Sherlock offers.

“What is?”

“That.  What you’re talking about.  Emotional connection?  Intimacy?  Perhaps it’s just beautiful lies, the province of priests and ad men?”

John frowns slightly.  “Do you believe that?”

Sherlock considers the question, and then, after a moment, he smiles—something intimate, sacred, only for John.  “No.”

John smiles back.  He’s relieved.  It’s something he hopes for then.  It’s something he wants with Sherlock, even now, even after knowing everything, even if he’s not quite sure what it is, still—he wants it.  “Come on,” he finally murmurs.  “We should get you fed and to bed.  You’re freezing, half-high, and exhausted.  Look at you.”

Sherlock looks down at himself, knuckles pink with cold, a sight in John’s too-small jacket, shoes ruined with slush and wet.

“Do I look ridiculous?”

“You look…”   John pauses for so long that Sherlock isn’t quite sure what to do.  John’s never looked at him like this before.  It’s the sort of thing that makes cells wake up, nerve endings sing, blood race to places it doesn’t normally care to go.  “You look—hungry.”

_What to say in return?_

“Come on.”  John leans in, reaches into the pocket of his coat, fingers brushing against the edge of Sherlock’s pelvis as he does, and fishes out his keys.  “Breakfast, bath, bed.”


End file.
